


The Appearance Of The Mysterious Mince Pies

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas fic, written for the prompt 'mince pies'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Appearance Of The Mysterious Mince Pies

Sherlock leapt out of the taxi before it came to a complete stop, and was already inside the flat by the time John had climbed out and stopped to pay the driver.

“Sorry about him,” he said, wondering if he should just get a set of cards with 'Apologies for the behaviour of Sherlock Holmes' printed on them that he could give out.

“That's all right, mate,” said the driver. “Bit excitable, is he?”

John rolled his eyes. “You have no idea,” he said, and turned to follow Sherlock up to the flat, hoping he hadn't managed to tear the place apart in the two minutes he'd had.

When he got inside, Sherlock was perfectly still, crouching down next to the coffee table and inspecting a plate of mince pies that hadn't been there when they went out.

“Oh, they look nice,” said John.

“Don't touch them,” said Sherlock, bending even closer until he was staring at them from less than an inch away. “I have no idea how they got here.”

“I expect Mrs. Hudson brought them up,” said John.

Sherlock threw him a scornful look. “Think, John! She left to spend Christmas with her sister this morning – we both saw her leave. No, someone else has managed to break in to our flat and leave these here.” He turned back to the pies. “Is poison too obvious?” he asked in the tone that meant he was talking to himself rather than John.

John sighed. Of course his life was such that unexpected gifts at Christmas were probably aimed at hurting them. His mind started to run through the list of people who might want to cause either of them harm. It was a distressingly long list, but it was considerably shortened when he tried to imagine the people on it using mince pies as their method of revenge. It wasn't really the style of Chinese antiques smugglers, for example.

Sherlock stood up in a quick movement, strode over to his chemistry equipment in the kitchen and extracted a pair of tweezers, then went back to the mince pies. He carefully levered the lid off one of the pies and examined the filling. “Hmmm,” he said and bent to sniff at it. “I can't detect any trace of poison, but of course we can rule nothing out until we've done a proper analysis.”

John sighed and dropped down onto the sofa. “Surely there are easier ways to poison us than leaving mince pies and hoping we eat them, if whoever it is is able to get into the flat,” he said. “Just putting arsenic in the milk seems a lot more practical.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “They must have known we'd be naturally suspicious of food appearing from nowhere.” He moved over to the window to examine it, and then to the door. “I can't even tell how they got in,” he said, starting to pace. “Who is capable of coming in here without leaving any evidence? We've already ruled out Mrs. Hudson, and you've been with me all day. Moriarty would have done something a bit more dramatic than mince pies, and almost certainly would have left a message of some sort – he can't stand not being acknowledged. Mycroft wouldn't have left food because it opens him up to ridicule about his weight, and the only other-” He stopped dead. “Oh. Oh, of course.”

He scooped up a finger of the pie filling and tasted it, then nodded to himself. “Definitely,” he muttered, pulling his phone out. “So obvious, should have seen it immediately.”

He dialled quickly, and when whoever was on the other end answered, said, “I received your gift.”

There was a pause, and he scowled. “Of course I knew they were from you straight away.”

Whatever the response to that was made him scowl more. “There is nothing wrong with my eating habits,” he said, and John was tempted to call out 'bollocks' for a moment.

“Oh, there's no need for-” said Sherlock, and was cut off. “Oh, fine,” he said ungraciously a moment later. “I'll be there.” There was another pause, and then he rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine, _we'll_ be there. Just try not to terrify him too much.”

John began to feel extremely apprehensive about this whole thing, even more so when Sherlock actually cracked a smile a moment later. “Yes, that's true,” he said. “I'll see you then. Merry Christmas, Mummy.”

John felt his eyebrows leap to his hairline as Sherlock hung up and tossed his phone on his chair. “We're going to Mummy's for Christmas dinner,” he announced, then picked up a mince pie and took a large bite out of it.

“What?” asked John. “Your mother crept in here with those?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “She'll have sent someone else.” He took another bite of pie. “She did make them, though,” he said around a mouthful of pastry. “I really should have recognised the recipe immediately.”

“Right,” said John distantly, adding that to the little he knew about Sherlock's mother. _Has access to people who can break in without leaving any evidence that Sherlock can find. Bakes mince pies._ His mental image of her grew even more confused. “Wait,” he said, his brain still catching up with the rest. “And we're going to Christmas dinner? Both of us?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He hesitated, then shrugged in the way that meant he was trying to hide how much something mattered to him. “If you want.”

“No, that's fine,” said John. “It'll be good to meet her.” It would be good, and the fact that the idea of it sent his stomach down through the floor was incidental. After all, just because she'd given birth to both Sherlock and Mycroft didn't mean that she'd be completely terrifying. He swallowed with a dry throat and wondered what the hell he was going to wear. Did he need to take her a present?

Sherlock gave him him a bright smile. “No need to worry, John, you'll do fine,” he said, and held out the plate. “Mince pie?”


End file.
